


interest and equivocality

by tablecloth



Category: Bully (Video Games)
Genre: Homophobic Slurs, M/M, Making Out, i cannot believe myself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-15
Updated: 2016-01-15
Packaged: 2018-05-14 04:37:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5729764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tablecloth/pseuds/tablecloth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>questions are hard to word and answers are hard to come by</p>
            </blockquote>





	interest and equivocality

**Author's Note:**

> i barely write so hello again for the first time since august

Their backs are on the carpet, eyes blankly skimming over the ceiling’s water stains and paint scuffs. The rattling hum of the Kowalskis' A/C has become nothing more than white noise and the predominant silence blankets over the two. Gary’s arms are stretched out horizontally and Petey’s fingers mindlessly dig into the carpet’s shag. He keeps rewording in his head what he wants to say, doesn’t want to set Gary off somehow. He considers introducing the topic with something to undermine himself-- something like, “sorry, this is probably stupid” or “um, could I ask you something dumb?” But then he figures he’ll probably be shot down immediately, knows that Gary doesn’t have time for something stupid, knows that Gary’s thoughts are constantly in motion and he won’t let them be interrupted by something he already knows will be a waste.

The words push out of his mouth wimpily and his fingers tug again at the floor, embarrassed. “Why do you hate your meds so much, Gary?”

Gary scoffs. “Femme Boy’s brave endeavor into the latent mind of Gary Smith!” he announces in feigned persona. “If you’re using this for my tabloid interview, Petey, may I suggest a more compelling narrative? Perhaps something along the lines of, ‘Mr. Smith, why does your family so prefer you when you’re doped off your ass on controlled substances’?” He unconsciously flexes his fingers with the suggestion. “Or maybe, ‘What is it like when your head doesn’t feel like it’s stuffed with cotton that’s doused in piss? What is it like when a month passes and you can actually recall what you were doing each fucking day’?” He laughs, ring and pinky fingers twitching just slightly. Petey isn’t sure if Gary’s going to continue, isn’t sure what he would reply with anyway, so he stays quiet. He tries to get a glance of Gary without moving his body too much and catches him with closed eyes and a smile, though it’s more of a grimace than anything. “You have to think of your audience, Pete. If you keep this up you’ll never make it to the big time editorials.”

Petey takes a breath, nails kneading into the rug. “You know that’s not why I asked,” he says, but obviously Gary knows that. He’s moderately conscious of the fact that Gary is utilizing honestly in the only way he knows how-- indirectly, derisively-- but he’s not confident enough yet to address it.

Gary props himself up on his elbow and twists to face Petey. His expression is indecipherable, something just short of a sneer while also just short of earnest, a calculated contradiction. “Why _did_ you ask, then, Femme Boy?” His voice is almost too loud, but it’s likely because this is the first time in the hour that his words have been directed at Petey and not his ceiling.

Making eye contact with Gary destroys what self-assurance he had, and Petey stammers for a response. “I’m just-- I mean--” He backtracks, raising himself on his elbow, eyes wandering to anywhere but Gary’s own. “Does it matter? I mean, you always complain about your meds but you’ve never really said _why_. It’s just-- like,” he feels his neck warm up. “I get worried sort of, and I guess I just wanted to know.”

Gary’s laugh almost startles him, and he instinctively moves away when Gary leans closer. “You get _worried_ about me? About what? That I’ll have a psychotic break? That I’ll burn a house down?” He leans in even farther, face contorting into disparaging pity, and his voice lowers into something clandestine and acerbic. “That I’ll stop being your _friend_?”

The room is suddenly claustrophobic, Gary is suddenly too close, Petey is suddenly too exposed. He scrambles away, face hot. “Screw you, Gary,” he retorts, weaker than intended. He tries to compensate by making his voice firmer. “You know, I just--” he breathes in. “Yeah, you’re right. I’m worried you’ll stop being my friend. I’m worried you’re going to get more screwed up and I won’t know what to do and you won’t even care and you-- you don’t care _now_ , anyway, so, like, whatever, right? Because everything’s just a big game to you and relationships are futile and I’m stupid for wanting to have friends and I’m stupid for being concerned for your stupid well-being and everything’s _stupid_ , right? We’re all just morons and you’re our shepherd or _whatever_.” He takes a shallow breath and humorlessly laughs it back out, pulling a knee to his chest. “You probably don’t even know what it’s like for someone to care about you, so why should I expect anything else?”

The words drop into dead air but Gary doesn’t seem to notice. He moves closer-- raised to his knees now, eyebrows raising in condescending sympathy-- but Petey doesn’t recoil. “Aw, little Pete, don’t cry; if you have a crush on me, you could have just said so.”

“Piss off, Gary,” he retorts lamely, having lost his steam. He tugs further at the floor and Gary laughs at the reaction, interest piqued. He tilts himself until his arm is braced against the carpet adjacent to Petey’s thigh and leans his face into Petey’s own.

“And the femme boy was a fairy all along,” he breathes a laugh, something in his eyes unreadable. “You ever think about kissing me, Petey?” But Petey can’t think, overwhelmed by their proximity (Gary smells like unscented bar soap and bay leaves) and his own conflicting emotions (Petey _has_ thought about kissing him, but there’s a difference between thinking about something and actually wanting to do it).

“What--? No. What?” Petey splutters. The tips of his ears burn and he’s vacantly measuring how much he hates himself.

Gary grins wickedly and slides his other hand to Petey’s knee. “You know how much I hate liars, Petey.”

Petey watches him nervously, has never kissed someone before, isn’t totally sure what’s going on. He lets Gary lean in and then their lips are on one another’s, but it’s chaste and clear that neither of them have experience with this.

They break apart after a few seconds and Petey’s about to say something (he’s not sure what, just knows he was opening his mouth with the intention of communicating _something_ ) when Gary presses his lips against his again. This time it makes more sense, somehow; it’s softer and less chaste and Petey lets his eyes close and feels strange because this is _Gary_ and he doesn’t know what to do with his hands so he cups one on Gary’s jaw and hopes he’s not made fun of for it but it fits and he likes it and he doesn’t know what Gary wants from this but it’s fine because what does he have to lose, anyway? And then Petey opens his mouth again but not to say anything this time and Gary follows and then they’re making out and Petey moves his knee under himself to press closer and slides his hands into Gary’s hair and Gary relocates his palm to Petey’s thigh and his other hand to the hem of Petey’s shirt and Petey tries something with his tongue and it’s apparently _good_ because Gary squeezes Petey’s thigh in response and thumbs just underneath the hem of his sweater but a hum of approval slips past Petey's lips, unwarranted, and hes suddenly self-conscious and insecure, pulling away in a rush of uncertainty.

He catches his breath, too aware now of all the places Gary’s body meets his. He hesitantly opens his eyes to find Gary nearly as breathless as he is-- flush high on his cheeks, lips rosy and parted, pupils big. They stare at eachother for a moment before Petey begins with “Um,” only to be overlapped by Gary’s voice.

“I always had you pegged as a queer,” he says with nonchalant cruelty (sabotaged, however, by the disloyal hoarseness of his voice). He detaches himself from Petey and stands up. Petey eyes the distinct curve in the front of Gary’s pants, baffled, and wonders if he’s imagining it, if he’s been imagining the whole thing. “It’s about time I excuse myself, however,” he states, voice not yet returning to normal. Gary adjusts his sweater as he heads toward the door, an attempt to occupy fidgeting hands. He twists around when he reaches the doorframe and looks to Petey. “I’ll be expecting a handwritten memo of gratitude for supplying you fuel for all future erotic pastimes of yours.”

Petey watches him leave, quiet. He's not sure he wants him to go but also doesn’t know what the fuck just happened. He doesn’t get Gary, never has and probably never will, and it’s as frustrating as it is inexplicably appealing. He’s not going to thank him, though.

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this instead of studying for my lit midterm. is this ironic? probably, but i wouldn't know because i was writing a fanwork in which two characters from a rockstar game make out instead of studying


End file.
